


Conversations Through Doors

by Ideal_Flower



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 06:47:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ideal_Flower/pseuds/Ideal_Flower
Summary: Each of them was silent, separated by two inches of wood and a lifetime of conflict. But he could hear her breathing, that light swish that he would recognize in the dark, out of her mouth and under her tongue and back to the very ends of his eyeballs. CarriexQuinn.Somewhere in a post-S6 AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this Sunday night at like 23h30. Fair warning.

**Conversations Through Doors**

He practically kicked her out. How much, exactly, did she think he would take? He could barely manage the sight of her anymore - that way she looked at him. How everything always - _always_ \- had to be about her. _Her_ house, _her_ rules, _her_ daughter, _her_ way. 

So he had left, after he had nothing else for her. It had been surprisingly easy - but then he had left an hour after she had left for work, with Franny in tow. A fitting coward's exit. The smile Franny had given him was the only thing that had made it difficult, her brief wave as she ducked into the Volvo's passenger side. But it hadn't even taken Carrie 48 hours to find him. To argue - he couldn't fucking stand it. 

When she stepped out into the apartment hall, she started to turn, her blonde hair swishing against the collar of her jacket as she pulled it on. He saw her mouth begin to open, her lined eyes lifting to search for his, but the door shut in her face before she could even start. 

“ _Quinn_!” she complained from the other side of the door. 

He didn’t reply at first, his mouth dry, his lips cracked. 

“Quinn, _don’t_ …” Her voice came closer, as if she were leaning her forehead on the doorframe, her lips at its seal. “Please, _don’t_ -”

“ _Fuck you._ ” 

At least he didn’t fucking stutter. 

Each of them was silent, separated by two inches of wood and a lifetime of conflict. But he could hear her breathing, that light swish that he would recognize in the dark, out of her mouth and under her tongue and back to the very ends of his eyeballs. 

“What more do you … w-want from me?” His tongue caught then, and it came out entirely too meek, as if he was pleading with her. “I don’t have…” He couldn’t find the words. He struggled only for a second, before realizing that it had been months since he had cared. The apartment behind him was empty, void of almost anything except the bedroll Max had loaned him - but at least there were no strings attached. He didn’t feel guilty here. He wasn’t the third wheel in the Carrie cog. 

He shuffled away from the door, his left side stiff, but his knee finally bending the right way. Leaning against the front wall, he peeked through the window blinds, waiting for Carrie’s form to come down the building's outside stairs. But it was too hard to tell, too dark to see anything but nondescript shadows. A woman walked down a few seconds later, but it wasn't her - he could pick her out anywhere, after all their years together.

Looking back at the apartment door, he held his breath, listening hard for her. He tried to stay silent, but the slip of his gait when he crossed the room gave little whisping sounds, giving him away. He could tell she was still there, the light from the hall strangely muted under the door frame. 

She sniffed, and the floor creaked a bit as she sat down, the shadow of her body cutting across him as he heard the soft thump of her back against the wall. His heart pounded in his throat, but he kept still, waiting for her to speak again, as if she would give him answers that she had never offered before. 

He didn’t know how long it took, how many minutes had passed. But he heard her shaky inhale, her harsh exhale, the shuffling of her boots. 

“I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_...” she finally said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m sorry for what I _did_ to you… _please_ …”

Maybe there was nothing left of him. If she had come to him earlier, perhaps he wouldn’t be this shell - this bitter, jaded shell of a something that might've - once - resembled a someone. Because he didn’t feel it - _couldn’t_ feel it anymore. His heart pumped, and his mouth swallowed, and his ears heard, but his entire body was empty.

“It’s too late.”


End file.
